


the relativity of things

by nevergreen



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Body Shots, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, REDBULL BODY SHOTS, Truth or Dare, Unresolved Sexual Tension, You've been warned, they're not admitting shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/pseuds/nevergreen
Summary: Eddy and Brett are going to film truth or dare video. They decide to play through some questions first.It's not that long before they both realize they ignored truths and didn't pick up dares along the way.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 25
Kudos: 88





	the relativity of things

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [The Relativity of things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29582301) by [liseyalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liseyalice/pseuds/liseyalice)



> [my twt i live here from now on lets be Frens](https://twitter.com/twosetforti)
> 
> Thank you so much [liseyalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liseyalice/works) for taking you time to work on the translation!!! ♥

They rarely knock at each other’s doors; they spend the majority of time together, anyway. If the door is closed and there’s no sound, then it’s probably time to sleep already; and if they can hear something, it’s better not to interrupt.  
Nevertheless, long before Eddy stops at another door, following the silence, he knows no one’s there. 

Brett is very quiet when he sleeps, unbelievably so, but it’s a different kind of silence now, viscous and thick, dense and empty at the same time. It rings in your ears; it tells you just how alone you really are. Eddy rarely encounters it. After all, they’ve always been a company for each other.  


And so he turns away from the door and goes down the hall. It’s not that late yet, and they could still do something together before going to bed. They don’t have much time nowadays, not for themselves. They’re both grateful for how everything worked out for them, they really are – it’s just sometimes they miss them being _them_ , but this is not the line of self-questioning Eddy is going to proceed with. He's got better things to do and think about.

He finds Brett in the living room, sprawled on the couch, with a laptop on his chest and eyes closed. That’s another side of Brett Yang, one that not a lot of people get to see: he works even when there’s no need to, when he’s not allowed even. So stubborn, Eddy thinks with a sudden fondness; Brett’s face serene and tranquil, all of his emotions trapped underneath the surface - that’s how you sleep only when you’re at home.  


The lights are out, and Eddy takes away the laptop as carefully as he can, squinting when the screen lights up. There is some kind of list, but Eddy can’t see a thing, not when it’s dark, and knocks the laptop on the forgotten mug on the coffee table, cursing under his breath. It’s barely audible - Eddy glances at Brett quickly to see if he’s still asleep, and sighs, relieved to see he is.  
It’s only when Eddy sits at the edge of the couch, careful not to wake Brett up, and checks the screen again, his eyes are adjusted by now, he feels a familiar warm touch on his back. 

“Hey,” Brett half-whispers, his hair is inky black in the semi-darkness of the room; he looks and sounds sleepy and oblivious. He squints then, too, and Eddy almost reaches out to smooth down the wrinkle between his eyebrows with a thumb; but then Brett sits down and searches for his glasses on the table, and Eddy backs down to give him some space. “I did wake you up, yes?”  


“Nah, I just knew you were there.” He rubs his eyes, puts his glasses in place, and looks at Eddy properly. “Want some coffee?”  
“I would kill for some coffee,” Eddy says sincerely and smiles when Brett stretches and mewls in displeasure, his face crooked. “My neck is _killing_ me,” he grumbles, and stretches further, tiptoeing, showing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pajama pants. When Brett squeezes past him, to the kitchen space, Eddy flips the light switch just for the sake of touching something; his fingertips are itching. 

He collapses on a chair, draws forward a bit, propping his arms on the dining table, and watches Brett. His heavy-lidded eyes are half-opened, a sleepy expression dissolves from his face slowly, giving way to the more attentive one. “Milk?” he asks, and between his question and Eddy’s nod are whole damn two seconds.  


Because this is usual, this is right, this is how things should be – a clock that says 11:42, bright lights, Brett at the kitchen counter – he’s all soft lines, half-awake, messy hair, a t-shirt slipping down one shoulder. That’s how it feels, their late evening, their work, their life together; the sharp feeling, pleasant and painful, shoved deep down, akin to tugging strings attached to his guts.  
That’s how it feels, looking at him.

“The relativity of things, am I right”, Eddy mumbles, pressing his forehead to the cold, smooth surface of the table. “Everything’s relative.” And he’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. How much time does it take, to shift a perspective of things, to challenge something you’ve known for as long as you can recall? Brett would understand this, everything – he always did, the only thing is, Eddy is not sure to what extent he wants him to know. They’re pretty much inseparable, and it’s a force to be reckoned with, but _I am in love with you_ is no less tremendous.  


That’s what his own relativity is: Eddy doesn’t know if he’s better off this way, and to compare means to throw himself into this, over and over. That loving Brett is wonderful and devastating at times; an evolved, strong, sure feeling, unresolved and aching.  
Friends, messengers, private accounts, subreddits, shower thoughts. That’s what people do when they need to rationalize things they have no control over. But did he lose control in the first place? And if Brett’s that great of a person that Eddy gravitates towards him for his whole life, just like everyone else does – isn’t this how Eddy himself chose things to be?

“What’s this for?” Eddy nods to the laptop. “A list," Brett answers, leaning over the kitchen counter. “Remember that truth and dare video we saw? I thought we could do one too.”  
“Do you need to drink for this?” Eddy asks, and when Brett shakes his head, sighs in disappointment. “Ah, fuck. Could make it another bubble tea one.”  
Brett shrugs, setting two mugs on the table and slumping down the chair. “Bet you didn’t even read them,” Eddy teases him and wraps his arm around Brett’s shoulders. He doesn't answer, and for a while they’re wrapped in a comfortable silence now, the one you can experience only with a person who doesn’t need words to understand you. It’s so unlike the heavy silence born from being alone, that Eddy allows himself to bask in it for a little more.  


“We need to look through what you found,” eventually, Eddy's the first to talk; he shakes Brett slightly, making him hum in protest and lift his head off Eddy's shoulder. “What if they’re offensive as hell. More like, play through, you know? Just to find ones we’ll be okay with answering.”  
“Isn’t the whole point in not being ready for what’s there?” Brett asks, significantly less sleepy than half an hour ago, and they both know the answer. “Ok, go print it. I’ll find something to put them in.”

When Eddy returns in the living space with the laptop, he also carries two freshly printed sheets of paper and scissors and sticky tape he took from the table just because he had nowhere else to put it; Brett’s waiting for him already, with a shabby looking box and a leftover black beanie from the last merch batch. Their mugs are at the coffee table, Eddy throws sticky tape at Brett from the doorstep, careful not to strike something else, and Brett catches it one hand; he’s so unfairly good at this, Eddy can't help rolling his eyes a bit.  


“I’m in my element,” Brett says, evidently pleased with the effect, and slaps the couch next to himself. “Just don't cut yourself,” he warns, looking at Eddy putting sheets of paper together. He folds them one, two times – there are ten entries on each, just enough for a company of two with some undefined but little amount of time – and makes a few cuts, then fills the dare beanie and the truth box with uneven pieces of paper. Then Eddy drops himself on the couch and finishes his coffee in one fell swoop. It starts to feel exciting, he admits to himself.

“I’ll start. No dares,” Brett announces loudly, putting his cup on the coffee table. “I have nothing to hide.” He digs into a pile of uneven pieces of paper and pulls out the long one. His face gradually goes through at least three distinctively different expressions while reading it, and Eddy asks, half-smiling:  
“Is there something stupid?”  


“There are a lot of them that are stupid. But it’s you who’s answering, anyway,” Brett folds the paper and looks at Eddy. “Truth or dare?”  
“Truth,” Eddy says cautiously, studying his face, but Brett just lets out a small soft sigh. “ _What would you change about your life if you could?_ ” he reads out loud, and this is just too easy to answer, and Eddy says quickly, sincerely:  


“I’d move in with you much earlier. Because it made everything so much easier.” He thought about this before, on his own, about them being unsure in their future; if their fears weren't as crippling, where they would be now? The novelty of living together is still lingering in the air, after all these months; and everything they do feels different, electrified, and gleeful.  
“Easier, yeah,” Brett echoes, and he looks puzzled. “What?” Eddy asks him, and Brett shakes his head, his face softens. “I just thought,” he says, fidgeting with a paper, “that I’d say the same. If I got this question. Ok, your turn,” he puts the beanie and the box between them and sinks back against the pillows. 

Eddy catches the one that prickles his finger and draws it out. “ _Have you ever tried to take a sexy picture of yourself?_ ” it says, and Eddy laughs, because oh boy, does he know the answer already. They both had, and both turned out to be awful. “No dares,” Brett reminds him, and when Eddy reads a question, he laughs too and rolls his eyes. “You know I had to. I was fucking cornered.”  


“Do you still have it?” Eddy asks, curious, and Brett rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Yes, I do. No, not going to show you again, because it’s not dare.” His hand is hesitant in the air. "Truth or dare?" he asks, before even pulling a paper, and Eddy waits for him to do so, trying to read his face to pick the right option. 

Instead, he sees how Brett’s cheeks are slightly tinted with red the moment he reads what's printed there, and the flickering light on his glasses hides his eyes from Eddy, so he quickly says:  
“Dare.” Questions are trickier, it’s easier to slip and harder to recover, and if frantic oscillation between feels and fears has taught him anything over the years, it’s that he could go away with a ridiculous amount of things as long as he keeps being silent about it. 

Brett folds this paper, too, and puts it on the table; it takes a lot of self-control from Eddy not to pick it up, to see what made Brett blush. “Um,” Brett clears his throat and takes a paper from the dare beanie. “ _Exchange clothes with a person of choice_ ,” he actually sounds relieved saying it. Eddy’s curiosity peaks, but he tries to control himself, so the only thing he does is wiggling his eyebrows, asking:

“So who is your person of choice?”  
“Hmm, I have way too many to choose from,” Brett hums and scratches his chin thoughtfully, and the mere sight of him makes Eddy crack up, it always does. They glance over each other quickly, and when Brett suggests “Socks?” with a voice like he knows the answer already, Eddy can’t help but grin while shaking his head. “Nah, bro. No slacking off.”  


Brett scoffs and takes his t-shirt off quickly, like shedding the old skin; he’s fine and thin and smooth under. It takes an eternity for Eddy to untangle from his own, it’s a bit too loose even for him. When Eddy does get out, he reaches forward, fast, and gives a quick pinch to Brett’s side, making him jerk back and yelp, laughing, folding in half. “Fuck off,” Brett breathes out, his shoulder blades are sticking out under the skin on his bare back.  
Eddy slides in the Brett’s t-shirt to stop himself from touching them too; it’s skin-tight for him and smells of Brett’s skin and warmth. When Eddy closes his eyes, it feels like being hugged.  
The feeling of Brett’s skin dissipates slowly from his fingertips; he breathes in and out, quickly, the sharp feeling digs in. But it can wait. There’s always time to sort it out later, when he’s alone.

He opens his eyes, and sees his own t-shirt, hanging way too loose on Brett’s profile, and Brett, pulling up the neck of it fiercely, trying to cover more. Somehow he manages to wrap himself in it, and when he lays back, he sounds almost content. “Ha! You actually look alright in it. I approve.”  
“And you look like you put an extra zero in your size chart,” Eddy chuckles and takes another piece. “Still no dares?”  
“Always no dares. I’m fuckin’ feral.” If anything, he looks even less feral than usual. “Alright then. _If you were going to become a close friend with a person to your left, please share what would be important for them to know._ ”  


They both start laughing before Eddy even finishes reading. “Okay, I think it is something I should’ve said _before_ we became friends, right?” Brett adjusts his glasses and hums under his nose. “I’d tell you: math tutoring class at 8! Don’t forget!”  
He gives one quick look at Eddy’s face, and if anything, Brett has always been able to read him like a Tchaik score, because he adds quickly before Eddy even says something:  
“We should stop saying _a person to your left_ kind of shit, there are only us. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, no shit.”  
“ _Call another person “master” for the next round_. What the hell,” Brett’s eyebrows jump up. Eddy snickers at his surprised face. “Yeah nah, I’m calling you “senpai” instead.” He takes out the next piece of paper. “Wait, let me,” Eddy cleans his throat, hums under his breath, and pulls out his best Edwina voice. “What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had, _senpai_?”  


His voice cracks and Brett laughs hysterically, like he’s in pain, hiding his face in his palms. “Fuck you and this game.” He exhales loudly, drops his hands, and shifts his back on pillows, his shoulder peeks out of Eddy’s t-shirt ever so slightly. Red paints his face quickly and surely, starting with his cheeks and creeping up to the tips of his ears. “Uh, a practice room... thing, I guess.”  


“A practice room thing, eh,” Eddy echoes and laughs, forgetting to call him senpai. Brett doesn’t seem to notice. “Dude, that’s nasty. They’re fucking gross.”  
“Yeah, but remember that one we used to occupy all the time? With that stupid big old poster and that jarring piano and crappy acoustics?” Brett draws a big rectangle in the air, his eyes are concentrated on Eddy.  


“Oh, this one,” says Eddy slowly, feeling the knot in his stomach tightening. Of course, he remembers. They used to sneak out from lectures and wait for each other there, and if they were lucky they would get to play together, twice a week at least, managing to find some time between their separate schedules, lives, other people. Of course, Eddy remembers what is one of the dearest of his uni memories. He closes his eyes and pictures Brett there, wrapped in one of these knitted sweaters of his, standing beside the wall with the poster with his eyes closed and playing.  


Eddy did imagine kissing Brett right there, on the spot, more than once; pressing him to the wall, sliding his hand under Brett's clothes, and always ended up just looking at him, his profile and ruffled hair and his concentrated, serious face with yellow lights flickering on his glasses. But never more than that, not really; he's got way prettier places in his mind for Brett to be. 

The realization that Brett had imagined being with someone there isn’t new but never fails to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Eddy always tried to stay as far from this part of Brett’s life as he could but to no avail; they were connected through friends, and friends’ friends, so Eddy knew when there were people. They came and went, and left no trace big enough for Eddy to know, but again, hasn’t he deliberately distanced himself from everything surrounding Brett’s love life? He tried to guess, and it didn’t do him good. He’s not about to guess now.  


“So, _senpai_ ,” he doesn’t bother with changing his voice this time, and it comes out lower than usual, “are you going to tell me what it was?”  


Brett never guessed. Eddy isn’t even sure that he knew. They look at each other for a long second, then Brett announces, suddenly:  


“It’s your turn,” and he’s significantly less pink than he was a minute ago. He doesn’t even ask for this time, but Eddy says “dare” anyway. If ignoring truth took him that far, it sure as hell can serve him a bit longer. Brett picks up a piece of paper and reads into it. 

“ _Do a body shot_ ,” he stops and his eyebrows jump up. “ _On a person of..._ on me,” he corrects himself hastily and Eddy feels his heart dropping in the darkest pits of his body – from both Brett’s words and his surprised face.  


“Oh,” that’s the only word Eddy possesses in his vocabulary for a moment. Then he forces himself to snap out of it. “It's that... thing..."  
"When you drink something off someone," Brett is as helpful as ever. "Oh. _Oh_. But we don’t have any alcohol, right?" Eddy blinks slowly at him. He doesn't possess nearly enough brain power right now to calculate the reason of Brett's excitement with the idea. He isn't even sure what he himself feels about it, that line of thoughts was forbidden and restricted way too long ago. "Should we skip it?”  


“No,” Brett frowns and it’s a renowned mystery how he manages to look surprised doing it. “No, let’s do this.” He doesn't explain shit, but Eddy sees the excitement blooming slowly all over his face, and that's something he could never say "no" to. “What do we use, then?” he still sounds puzzled, processing the mental image Brett’s words gave him. Only after a couple of seconds he realizes it must have sounded like he’s against the whole thing, so he says quickly to regain the possibly lost ground:  
“And where?” 

Brett hums under his nose; he looks serious, but his eyes are sparkling, and the curious curve of his lips somehow puts Eddy at ease. “We have Red Bull. Also, wherever.”  
“I can do it here, you know,” Eddy says slowly, pointing at Brett’s collarbone; he forbids himself to even think about anything involving him and Brett’s body below the waist. “I mean; you’ll die from tickles if I touch you anywhere else.”  


When he voices it out, everything suddenly seems even less real, and then it occurs to him. “We don’t have shot glasses, though, do we?”  
“Who needs shot glasses,” Brett lets out a small chuckle. “I know the way of the body shot, and glasses are for pussies.”  
“Ok, so I just, um. Bring it?”  
“Yeah, sure, go on,” Brett scans his face as if searching for any sign of discomfort. Seemingly satisfied with the result, he props back on pillows. "It's somewhere under the stuff." 

Eddy finds the can relatively quickly, the only one that survived after his disastrous attempt to pull an all-nighter to finish one of the scripts. It’s cold and feels slippery in his hand, and the throat tightens when Eddy closes the fridge, turns back, and sees Brett, sprawled on the couch, looking at him, _waiting for him_. Eddy returns to the couch on stiff legs and sits down. The piece of paper is still there, where Brett left it a minute ago, and Eddy can see every word, proving he’s not imagining things, not hallucinating, not daydreaming. “Lean back,” he says, slowly, and his voice sounds unfamiliar to him. “And try not to move.” 

His fingers betray him twice, and when he opens the can from the third attempt, he’s pretty sure that Brett sees it, too. “Yeah, as long as you don’t fuck it up and I get to finish it after,” Brett chuckles under his breath, throwing his head back.  
“Have you done something like this before?” Eddy asks right away, reaching for the neck of the t-shirt. When he pulls it down the left shoulder, exposing the collarbone, slender and thin under the skin, and presses his fingertips lightly to the curve of it, Brett tenses under his fingers.  


Now, if Eddy thinks about it, Brett did have his fair share of parties without Eddy, didn’t he? After all, Brett was the one who dragged him along, and there were plenty of times when Eddy refused to go. That’s probably why Brett’s so tense right now; there probably is some awkward story to it. Maybe the kind Eddy wouldn’t want to know.  


“Bro, that’s dare, not truth,” Brett protests, relaxing slightly and letting Eddy climb over his legs. “Shit, that’s one wobbly pillow.” He reaches out to readjust it and yells when Eddy slaps his hand lightly. That’s an anxiety-ridden one, and Brett seems to understand it too fucking well because he stills that instant. Sometimes Eddy forgets how easy it is for Brett to read him.  


“Don’t move,” Eddy says once again, for a good measure, then moves the pillow under Brett’s back slightly and reaches for the can. “It’s going to be cold.”  
“Just don’t pour it all over the freaking couch, man,” echoes Brett, but his voice is strained with something other than mere concern. When Eddy carefully, slowly drips some over his skin, Brett just inhales sharply through gritted teeth but does stay put. Eddy fills up the curve of Brett’s collarbone drop by drop, careful not to spill any; a few get on the t-shirt anyway, but neither of them seems to care anymore.  


Eddy lowers himself over Brett, one hand against the couch, another hovers over a tiny sliver of skin between pajama pants and the t-shirt, and he's pretty sure Brett is holding his breath, too. Then he swallows, quick and nervous, and it makes Eddy so unbelievably dizzy that he gives up and clings on him, digging his fingers into the soft skin, and breathes out:

“Be still,” and bows down to Brett’s neck, lapping at his collarbone, before pressing his mouth down Brett’s skin and filling the curve with his tongue. Eddy’s drunk on the sudden realization he’s not imagining this. The neck of his t-shirt on Brett is wet from all the drops trickled down, and when Eddy swallows what feels like a mouthful - his throat is dry still – it feels intoxicating. 

Brett whimpers under him, a beautiful, small soft sound Eddy hears and feels at his lips at the same time, and he immediately wants to draw out more, so Eddy licks him clean, in slow wide tongue strokes, until there’s nothing but the taste of Brett, salty and pungent, and presses his lips down, one last time. Eddy feels his whole body trembling, and when he nuzzles his nose against the wet skin, he realizes Brett is shivering too. 

The chin rest mark on Brett’s neck is so close, it’s right before Eddy’s eyes, it begs him to press his lips over it, cover it whole, make it bigger and redder, and it’s just too much of Brett, too hard not to give in, not to drown in the way he smells and tastes that it takes Eddy a whole another second to draw away. _It could be a dare to kiss him_ , it's all he can think of.  
He’s glad it’s not. He’s devastated he didn’t get a chance.  


When he breathes in again and raises his head, Brett’s hand slides away from his back.  


They both sit up, and the silence is overwhelming; Brett is the first to break it. “I’ll rate it as not ticklish as I thought it would be/10,” he announces, his voice is slightly raspy and breathless as if he’s been holding his breath as well, and Eddy feels the familiar pang below the stomach, it cuts into him, twice as sharp.  


“It was hard,” Eddy admits, “not to make a mess.”  
“Well, you kind of did,” says Brett, and looks at him, and laughs under his breath, all pink and tousled, wrapped in Eddy’s t-shirt, and Eddy waits for another stab, but it comes slowly this time, hugging him, and its embrace is smothering. To laugh it off like Brett, that’s what Eddy wants.  


Coincidentally, that’s what he’s very bad at. The only thing he learned over the years of hiding how he really feels is to suppress it until there’s nothing but a distant, vague feeling of emptiness under his ribs. It’s a black hole eating at him, now. When Eddy looks at the truth box, Brett follows his glance, as if thought the same. The pile of truths is still ominously big.  
Eddy isn’t sure he wants to perform another dare, anyway, be it finally playing or doing anything else. All of a sudden, he just feels so very tired.  
And so that’s what he says. 

Actually, he stretches, and groans something like _what the fuck, bro, how come it’s 2 am already_ and _ahhh, my sleep schedule is so fucked up_ and _let’s call it a night_ ; he laughs and rubs his eyes, and ruffles his hair, and when Brett stands up, Eddy bumps his shoulder lightly, like he always does. They clean up the coffee table, they throw all the remaining papers in the box, they put coffee mugs in the sink, Brett wins over Eddy in scissors-paper-rock and goes to the bathroom first.  


And the only thing Eddy truly feels all this time is Brett’s taste lingering on his lips, melting away slowly.  


He brushes his teeth, deep down in his thoughts. When he takes the t-shirt off, it smells like bedsheets from the bed they shared in a hotel once.  
Eddy still remembers it down to details – how he slid into the embrace of fresh bedsheets first and pretended he’s way too busy with reading manga when Brett returned from the shower; how they nestled next to each other and Brett touched Eddy’s foot with his, wet and cold - Eddy gasped and yelled, twice, to Brett’s utmost pleasure, who laughed and said “ _great, now everyone thinks we’re fucking in here_.” He didn’t mean shit by this; he probably didn’t even think about it – Eddy knows him long enough to be sure of that. Still, for a few seconds, his insides felt like a tight, burning knot he gave up to untangle long ago; they watched one or two episodes of anime together before Brett dozed off. Eddy fell asleep only a good hour later, after carefully wrapping Brett in a blanket and listening to his breath until it evened out. 

He woke up first too, and it was, he remembers it well, a really cold morning, because Brett’s arms were wrapped around him and the blanket thrown aside, his face hidden in the crook of Eddy’s neck, and his breath was slow and warm against the skin.  
_stop it, you’re making it worse_  
Eddy’s hand on the small of Brett’s back, the scent of his hair, the steady rhythm of his pulse. The way his lean fingers are lying on Eddy’s chest, right over the heart.  
_don’t think about this, not right now_  
Brett, shifting and moving closer, his half-hard cock sliding against Eddy’s thigh through the underwear.  
_shit_  
Eddy was the first to take a shower this morning. After, they ordered breakfast in the room and shared it on the same bed. Brett was giggly and joyous, and very hungry. And even if he noticed teeth marks on Eddy’s thumb, he didn’t say anything.  
They went to see friends over the coffee, they got back and practiced till evening, they performed. And their performance was damn good. 

To imagine is to think, and to think is to plague the mind with unrealistic possibilities; he stopped thinking, and analyzing, and daydreaming long ago. Maybe, he shouldn’t have been allowed from the beginning. Maybe, then this everblooming, pained _thing_ that came to life again, fed by his recklessness and need – maybe, it would have been sleeping by now, curled under his ribs.  


Nevertheless, Eddy presses his head into the pillow - and for the first time in forever allows himself to _imagine_ , and to _think_. He thinks about how he wouldn’t stop on Brett’s neck; he’d kiss all the way up, suck on the sensitive spot under his jawline, drawing out short breathy whimpers. Eddy would taste his mouth, licking into it deliberately, biting and tugging at his lower lip. In his thoughts, Brett hastily takes glasses off both of them, kisses him back and Eddy presses him into the couch to feel every inch of Brett’s body with his own; in his thoughts, Brett slides both of his hands under Eddy’s t-shirt, and they both find out that when you’re that aroused, being ticklish is not a problem. In his thoughts, Brett wants, and asks, and gives back.  


Eddy bites into his thumb to hold the groan, pulling the waistband of his shorts down with another hand, sinking deeper into the pictures drawn by his restless mind. They’d kiss until Eddy’s eagerness spilled out, fueled by Brett’s hands gripping his shoulders; he’d take his t-shirt off in one fell swoop and drop it on the floor, forgetting about it instantly. He would grab Brett’s hips to ground him, would slide against him, agonizingly slow at first, and their soft, breathy moans would sound like a loveliest chord, Eddy’s so sure of that; his own voice in the darkness of his room sounds imperfect and unfinished. He hastily thinks more - more of these frantic kisses and grinding through the underwear until Eddy would get brave enough to touch Brett; he’d tug on the hem of the t-shirt, drawing it up and sliding his fingers down Brett’s stomach, stopping at the waistband of his boxers for a second then pulling them down. 

Brett would be scorching hot there, melting under Eddy’s touch, leaking on his fingers, whimpering into a kiss, arching his hips to meet each and every of Eddy’s deliriously tender strokes. Their lovemaking would be more of making up for the lost time, impatient, loving, and haste; no thoughts of past or future, only the moment they’re in together. Eddy draws his hand out, licking his palm, sucks on his index finger, and Brett would surely taste better than the bittersweet flavor of loneliness rolling on Eddy’s tongue. A couple more slides down and up, and the overwhelming need to make Brett sing for him would fill Eddy to the brim; he’d straighten up, push Brett’s boxers down his narrow hips and take a moment to look. 

“What a sight you are,” Eddy breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut till he sees splotches of color behind his lids, gripping his cock hard, moving the palm in wide, sharp strokes. “What a sight you are, _Brett_ , baby.” 

What a sight Brett would be, truly; disheveled hair, bright lips, kissed and licked and bitten countless times, eyes half-closed in pleasure, wet eyelashes sticking to the lower lid, in Eddy’s t-shirt still, spread apart on pillows under him; beautiful, undone, marked down, craving, breathing heavily; his cock twitching when Eddy looks at it. _Oh god, he’s close, he’s so close._

And so Eddy would lean down, and lick on him tentatively, making a soft small circle on the tip with his tongue; Brett would choke on his moan, while Eddy lowered his mouth on him, drawing out the note, loud and clear, the one he yearned for so long. With his mouth watering, with his palms gripping down Brett’s thighs, with his tongue enveloping Brett’s cock, worshipping every inch, Eddy would close his eyes, and suck on him hastily and sloppily, desperate to make him come, to drink him up till there’s nothing left. _Don’t stop, baby, please, I love you, I love you so much._

In his thoughts, Brett reaches Eddy’s cheek with his fingertips, strokes it with the agonizing tenderness, and splashes on Eddy’s haste tongue, filling his mouth with hot thickness; in his bedroom, Eddy cries out, and spills on his fingers, panting and squinting his eyes shut.  


He would suck Brett dry, and bring him fresh clothes, and make them both tea, and bring Brett here, to his room, and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him more. Here, in reality, Eddy can’t even bring himself to get up and clean, so he wipes himself with a t-shirt, throws it away, and curls in a ball under the blanket.  
He falls asleep quicker than ever before.

When Eddy wakes up, it’s 1 pm already; and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake off the outdated feeling of being late – somehow, somewhere. This feeling, uneasy and restless, was his fellow companion throughout the majority of his life, from school to orchestra; it never failed to take him out of bed, nor does it now. He untangles himself from the blanket, gets up and fumbles through his closet. 

The skies outside are low and heavy, and a heavy raindrop smashes down Eddy’s head when he peeks out the window. It seems like perfect weather to stay inside, to order an ungodly amount of takeaway, and to film all day long; something still feels off, though, and Eddy can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. He dresses up, and makes his bed, and tries to tame down his hair; that’s when it occurs to him he doesn’t hear Brett playing. In fact, their apartment is completely silent and that’s not something that happens often. 

Eddy grabs his glasses from the table, checks his phone, and leaves the room. Brett’s door is closed again; this time Eddy doesn’t even need to come closer to know Brett’s not here. He goes down the hall, and the sound of his steps echoes around in silence. Brett wouldn’t go out in such weather, not without texting Eddy at least.  
Eddy knows it, and still feels relieved when he steps into the kitchen. 

Brett’s here, by the table, propping it with his elbows, eating ice-cream, and vigorously scrolling through something on his iPad. His hair is puffy and wild, he sits cross-legged and slumped, his bare knees peek out of his clothes. Eddy’s heart slams violently against his ribs when he realizes Brett’s still wearing his t-shirt, and it echoes down his stomach; the sharp feeling never fails to come in time. Brett looks up and sees him, and sleepless night is written all over his face. 

“It’s raining,” he says. And then:  
“Want some coffee?”  
Eddy nods and it pisses him off that he’s unable to speak for a second. When he does, it comes out raspy and dry. “Had a rough night, eh?”  
“Just couldn’t fall asleep.” His violin is here, too, in an opened case on the couch, so he probably did play, albeit not loud enough to wake Eddy up. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he adds, echoing Eddy’s own thoughts, and it should have felt comforting, it always was at times when Eddy could feel the bond between them, exceptional, unbreakable, unexplainable. The only thing is, Brett is concerned about something, and when it happens, the best thing Eddy can do is to leave Brett to process his thoughts until he’ll be ready to speak. Any other day, he’d do just that. 

The only thing is, Eddy’s concerned too. And when he sees his own t-shirt, hanging low on Brett’s shoulders, showing the patch of skin he kissed yesterday and so many more times in his thoughts, he allows himself, if only for some short time, to unleash the wildest, bizarre guess, to barely form it inside his mind, not daring to voice it even there.  
Brett stands up, and Eddy is itching all over, frightened by the force his body urges him with to rush over there and hug him, to assure them both, to catch on the loosening end, to make them both sure nothing is screwed as long as Eddy keeps all the stuff that’s screwed to himself. “Brett,” he says with a weak voice, but that's nothing compared to how powerless Eddy feels. “Come here.” 

Brett turns on his heels the second Eddy calls for him, walks closer, and Eddy catches him midway in his arms, hugs him tight, the relief is overwhelming, filling him to the brim. Brett wraps his arms around Eddy’s waist, too, and sighs somewhere on his shoulder when Eddy hides his face in Brett’s hair. Words dance on his lips, ready to escape, and he said it many times before, but this time, Eddy knows, it will spill out everything he kept to himself for so long.  


“I love you, Eddy,” says Brett quietly, instead of him, for them both; his voice is content, and sure, it isn’t plagued by any unnecessary thoughts, meanings, feelings; to hear it feels achingly good. “Go take a shower or something.” 

And so Eddy does, and there’s nothing but a blissful white noise of water in his head while he’s at it. When he returns to the kitchen, there’s a cup of coffee waiting for him, and an uneven pile of ice-cream on the plate with a fork sticking out of it. “Your share,” Brett explains. “Bro, we need to talk.” It doesn’t sound a tad bit ominous, but everything is over the edge and electrifying today, so Eddy stops sipping his coffee and listens. “That video we were going to make, truth or dare. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

That’s something Eddy has completely forgotten about: they did plan to film it, after all. Now it’s obvious that the game they played yesterday wasn’t something they aimed for. “I agree, we better search for some violin related questions, maybe write some? I think I could-”  
“Eddy,” Brett interrupts him, and his eyes are alarmed and golden. “I think we should keep it to ourselves.”  


Eddy licks his lips nervously, instinctively, and swallows hard, feeling his throat suddenly drying. The vanilla taste in his mouth is mixed with strawberry chapstick. Brett’s words are real trouble to break down and process, so he gives up after a couple of seconds and asks him, his voice cracking just a bit at the end:  
“What do you mean?” 

Brett pats down his shorts pockets instead of answering, and frowns slightly; up close he looks even more tired and sleepless. There’s something else, though, right behind his eyes, heavy in his restless hands, sealing down his lips; a delirious thought, excruciating in its unreality, flutters inside Eddy, tangled, making him shiver.  
Finally, Brett finds what he has been searching for and puts his palm down in front of Eddy on the table. When he takes his hand away, there’s a crumped piece of paper with uneven edges. 

Eddy reaches for it slowly, his fingers trembling and cheeks burning, the heart pounding in an earth-shattering way. He reads it, and reads it, and reads it all over again, and it’s too much of a single thought to process, the only thing his mind can produce is _it was there it was in dares it was there i could_ , and long before he breathes in again, tears are flowing down his cheeks. 

When he raises his head and looks at Brett again, the soft edges on his eyes, outlined by the translucent shade of sleepless purple and these impossibly long eyelashes of his, are wet too. They both look at each other, and Eddy isn’t sure he will be able to formulate the stream of consciousness into words ever again. When he finally does, his voice is raspy and trembling. “I had no fucking idea. Not a single fucking clue, Brett. I’m an oblivious fucking idiot.” 

“Me too,” Brett echoes, and the crack in his voice makes Eddy’s eyes water in the most unexplainable way. “It’s not a stupid game, Eddy,” he whispers, nodding on the piece of paper Eddy still holds. “Whatever feels right. No rules.”  
Eddy reaches to touch him, and takes his glasses off, and wipes away Brett’s tears with his thumbs, unexplainably dizzy and lightheaded and awestruck. He cups Brett’s face in both hands then, bites his own lip, hard – it does nothing to ground him, though; if anything, he feels like he's going to fall. 

And so he does - draws forward and kisses Brett, like he always meant to, like Brett was meant to be kissed, and everything is surreal and hazy but so bright and sharp at the same time, and the feeling when the ever-tangled thing under his ribs unwinds itself - while Eddy kisses Brett’s mouth with his shaky lips - is the best thing he's ever experienced. Brett moves closer, and the hug they share is just the same that half an hour before, and Eddy inhales sharply at the mere thought it’s all been there. Has Brett been too... for how long? There are tears of relief, and of anger, and of how stunned and freaked out and happy he is, and he can’t feel all of it and simultaneously is overflown by everything. 

Brett mumbles something into the kiss, and strokes Eddy’s back with both of his palms; every warm touch of his washes away everything still nibbling at Eddy.  
Eddy knows by heart what he said. It’s not something he’s never heard before, after all. 


End file.
